“Don’t worry,” Ellagine encouraged, her blue eyes smiling at him. “You can do this. It is a far less dangerous task than the Green Stone.”
Eliesmore felt a warm stream of peace flow through him as he met her eyes.
“We will meet you again in the Torsilo Quarts when you find Wekin,” Idrithar told Eliesmore.
“I’m ready,” Eliesmore answered.
“Then I suggest you go with all speed. The Black Horse Lords are almost out of sight,” Idrithar said. He paused as he stroked his beard. “Eliesmore, let no one see your sword.”
Eliesmore took one last look at his companions. He looked at Ellagine, the beautiful Green Person. She nodded at him. “Run.”
46
Wekin
Wekin rode on one of the black horses in the iron grip of a Cron. When he’d first found himself snatched away from his companions, he had been frightened. The grip of the Cron who held him had not slackened. Wekin considered squirming and demanding the Cron loosen his grip. After a few minutes of warring with his two choices, he concluded it served him right for stealing Murthweeld and getting into trouble in the first place. Recognizing his punishment, he turned his attention to his surroundings.
The Horse Lords galloped through lush farmlands, dotted with trees and the swell of hills. Boring. Wekin took a deep breath and let out an inaudible sigh. Thus far, his adventures with the Green Company had been utterly boring. Life at the fortress had been utterly boring. Perhaps the Horse Lords would provide some excitement to his dull life. Tilting his head as best he could, he examined his captors.
The Crons and Tiders were much bigger than him in both height and muscular thickness. They were dressed in black from head to toe. They had polished helmets to protect their heads yet there was an opening to reveal their faces. Wekin wanted to ask what they wanted with him. It was clear he was a White Steed, which meant they would take him to one of two places for further questioning and perhaps torture: Daygone or the Torsilo Quarts.
For the first time, he began to wonder if the Green Company would come after him. Were they angry at his foolishness? Would they leave him to his doom? Before the overwhelming thoughts of loneliness and torture settled in his mind, he reprimanded himself because Idrithar was not there to do it. It was too dangerous for the Green Company to come after him. After all, their quest was to dissolve the Green Stone. While that task alone seemed impossible, it would be foolhardy for them to come after him. He was a nobody. Worthless. He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts to go away. Worry was not for him. He had to focus on the present.
As the wings of night moved across the countryside, the Black Horse Lords reined in their mounts and dismounted one by one. Wekin was pulled off the horse and dumped on the ground like a sack of Murthweeld. Before he could take a step, hands came down on his shoulders. “Pass me rope,” the Cron muttered.
“Aye.” Another Cron nodded, holding out rope as he moved toward them.
“Hey,” Wekin protested as the Cron reached for him. “I don’t need to be tied up.”
The Cron raised his hand and slapped Wekin’s face, causing his head to jerk back. “You’ll do as you’re told,” the Cron grunted.
Wekin narrowed his eyes at the bully before holding out his wrists. The Cron tied the rope around his hands, pulling the knots tighter than necessary at the end. Using the rest of the rope as a leash, he jerked Wekin to the middle of the encampment.
The Black Horse Lords allowed their horses to graze in a circle around them. In the midst of the circle, a fire was built, and presently Wekin detected the scent of something foul. He sniffed. They didn’t know how to cook. The spices in the air were wrong, and whatever it was they were cooking was likely dead too long. Wekin stuck out his lower lip, wishing for Yamier’s comforting cooking.
The foul substance was soon warmed, and a Cron walked around, handing out cups of the inedible slush to each Horse Lord. Wekin accepted his without a word, holding it gingerly in his bound hands as he speculated why the Horse Lords had wooden cups instead of leaves, which were easier to carry.
The Cron who had captured Wekin examined him and bellowed out, “Eat!”
“No.” Wekin stuck his nose in the air. “It is foul food. Your horses could cook a better meal if you’d let them.” He grinned, proud of his statement, but the murderous look on the Cron’s face wipe away his gloating.
“Eat,” the Cron commanded, lumbering over to Wekin. He grabbed a fistful of Wekin’s hair, yanking his head back.
“Stop it,” Wekin complained. “You don’t have to get so upset; I was merely stating a fact.”
Ignoring him, the Cron clamped a hand around Wekin’s jaw, forcing his mouth open, and dumped the entire contents of the cup into Wekin’s mouth.
Wekin gagged and choked, attempting to spew out the bitter meal. The angle his head was at prevented the food from spilling, and he managed to swallow some, coughing and his eyes streaming as it burned his mouth and throat.
“Water,” Wekin choked out when the Cron let go of him. He felt the warm liquid dripping down his chin onto his tunic.
The Cron gaffed, causing a spurt of laughter from the other Horse Lords.
“Give him water,” a stern voice ordered.
Wekin looked up to find a tall Cron standing over him. The tall Cron sat down beside him as a water skin was pushed into his hands. Wekin took a long swallow.
“I am Lord Axle,” the Cron began. His brown eyes were shallow, constantly shifting back and forth as if he were unsure of himself. “I lead these Horse Lords, and I am in charge of your fate. If you help me, perhaps I can help you.”
Wekin continued to guzzle water.
“Your answers to these questions may determine whether we set you free or take you to the Torsilo Quarts. You are aware of what awaits you there?”
Wekin choked and coughed again, recognizing the veiled threat.
Lord Axle moved in front of Wekin and began, his voice cold and slow. “What were you doing with that company in the orchard?”
“Running.” Wekin perked up, happy for an easy question.
Lord Axle paused, his mouth hanging open a fraction, taken aback by the Wekin’s answer. He furrowed his brows. “Why were you running?”
“You, the wolves, and dogs were chasing us.” Wekin shuddered.
The Cron’s eyes darkened. “Why were we chasing you?”
Wekin glanced up at the sky, searching for answers. “I suppose the farmers called you to fight their battle.”
Lord Axle’s voice lowered. “Why did they call? Because your company was in the orchard. Tell me: what were you doing there?”
Wekin shrugged. “It was my fault for picking Murthweeld.”
Lord Axle glowered. “How many are in your company?”
Wekin took another long drink, emptying the water skin. He tossed it away and fixed Lord Axle with a stare.
“Why were you traveling this far north?” Lord Axle prodded.
Wekin sat still in silence, biting his tongue to keep it from leaping out.
“I know you are a White Steed. Answer me!” Lord Axle demanded.
“No!” Wekin jerked away, leaping up. “I don’t care what you do. You won’t get any information from me!”
“Sit down,” Lord Axle snapped. “If you don’t answer me, you’ll get what you deserve.”
“If I do tell you, I will get the same thing,” Wekin muttered under his breath. Louder, he demanded, “Where are you taking me?”
“To the castle in the Torsilo Quarts and maybe then to Daygone,” Lord Axle answered. “As the rule goes, torture—Torsilo Quart—first and then death—Daygone.”
Wekin froze, the color draining from his face at the mention of Daygone.
“Sleep.” Lord Axle laughed at Wekin’s expression. “When you are ready to talk, find me.”
For the first time in his life, Wekin passed a sleepless night. He watched the stars and fidgeted with the rope as it bit into his skin. He could not help b
ut feel the end was near; his time before he reached the Torsilo Quarts would be critical. He had to find a way to eat bacon one last time.
The days trickled by as Wekin planned his escape, unwilling to endure the foul food the Horse Lords forced down his throat each night. His hands worked against the ropes, undoing the knots and releasing his sore wrists. The Horse Lords were slow to notice his freedom. When they set camp that evening, Wekin settled in the dust and picked up a stick, finding comfort in the familiar strokes. He sketched out the Eastern South World, also known as the Hill Countries. His fingers caressed the graceful swoops of the hill countries, the craggy mountains, and the vague circles of islands to the north of Daygone. As a signature, he marked the countries with their names in the common tongue. His eyes reluctantly followed his lonely journey toward the Torsilo Quarts, and he found himself wishing for the kind attentions of the Mermis in the fortress.
“You are a mapmaker?” The voice made him jump. “Lord Axle, look at this,” a Tider called, pointing to Wekin’s map.
Lord Axle strode over, pausing in surprise at Wekin’s artistic abilities. “Ah, you must be from the Eastern Hill Countries. Tell me: where did the company you traveled with originate from?”
Wekin just stared at the map. “I can’t tell you,” he snapped when Lord Axle prodded him for answers.
“Who taught you how to draw maps?” Lord Axle tried a different approach.
Wekin sighed. “My father.”
“Family business, I presume.” Lord Axle attempted to fill in gaps of knowledge. “He took you across the South World?”
Wekin leaned back. How could he possibly have traveled the South World? The Horse Lord presumed too much. “Of course not,” he blurted out before he remembered he should not be talking.
“Draw a map of the western South World,” Lord Axel instructed, crossing his arms.
Wekin paused, considering how much trouble drawing a simple map would get him into. When he could not come up with a reason, he took up his stick and began. This time he drew quickly instead of relishing the art. The watching Horse Lord seemed to taint his enjoyment.
“How do you know it is like that?” Hints of awe flickered in his tone.
“My father taught me,” Wekin repeated.
“And how does your father know? Because he traveled the world. He must be the leader of your company,” the Cron said more to himself than Wekin. He grabbed Wekin's shoulder. “Where is he now?” he hissed.
Wekin pulled back. “He’s dead.”
“Dead? Are you sure you aren’t lying?” Lord Axle asked.
“If I were lying, I wouldn’t be here. I would be back…” Wekin trailed off at a loss for words.
Lord Axle sat back on the ground and folded his arms. “You could do well as a Black Steed. There would be a place for you with the Horse Lords, and you could avoid this nasty business regarding being tortured in the Torsilo Quarts. There are few White Steeds in the South World. If you remain loyal to them, you doom yourself to a lifetime of misery. We will catch the One. Only time will tell. He is your leader, isn’t he? The One ‘Song’ is sung about?”
Wekin burst into laughter; the combination of the Cron offering him a place with the Horse Lords while assuming Eliesmore was the leader of the Green Company was too much for him. “No.” He wiped his eyes.
Lord Axle’s face grew dark. “Are you sure? He is a Blended One with black hair and jeweled eyes, green, like the Treasure Hunters. Are you certain?”
Wekin was stunned. It was the first time someone had alluded to Eliesmore as a Treasure Hunter, a Jeweled One. He supposed it was true. Eliesmore had emerald green eyes. The Green Stone belonged to him, which meant…Wekin scrunched up his face as a thought possessed him. His brain began to hurt from thinking. The Blended Ones were scorned, according to the tales of Pharengon of the Jeweled Sword and his companions. The Blended Ones had a way of manipulating events to their advantage. Even in the Eastern World, the Treasure Hunters had searched for the Clyear of Power. However, it had come to a Blended One. Perhaps Eliesmore had the same devious nature. Wekin frowned. “I’m certain,” he told Lord Axle.
“Who is your leader?” Lord Axle sat back thoughtfully, failing to notice Wekin tossing the rope into the fire. “Think about it.” He pressed Wekin. “Join my company of Horse Lords. Turn to the ways of the Black Steeds.”
“Never.” Wekin glared at him. “I am a White Steed. It is the only serious choice I will ever make.”
“We shall see about that when we reach the Torsilo Quarts.” Lord Axle rose, leaving Wekin to consider the consequences of his refusal.
47
Eliesmore
Eliesmore led the way, his heart thudding behind his rib cage as they neared the black castle. Optimistic, Arldrine, and Yamier ran beside him. Yamier’s shoulders quaked from exhaustion. They had pushed themselves hard the past two weeks, hoping to reach the castle of the Black Steeds before Wekin was cast into torture. They knew it was likely that they were too slow.
“There it is,” Yamier breathed in excitement as they approached the castle.
It stood just as dark and intimidating as Eliesmore remembered. He shivered, reminding himself this time it was different. “How should we attack?” Eliesmore asked Arldrine.
“We either barge in the front door or creep around the back. That’s how real attacks go,” Yamier suggested.
Somehow, Eliesmore doubted Yamier had ever been in a real attack.
“We aren’t attacking; we are procuring Wekin,” Arldrine objected. “Besides, the Black Steeds aren’t used to White Steeds showing up. We can simply walk in the front door.”
“Oh.” Yamier frowned.
“The torture rooms are toward the front of the castle,” Eliesmore recalled. “That’s likely where he will be.”
Optimistic hid his bow in the folds of his cloak. “Let’s go.”
Arldrine took the lead and raised a fist, pounding on the heavy doors. They swung open. There were two guards on either side of the entrance. A Tider strode out. “Who are you and where do you come from?” he demanded.
The Tider’s hand shot out. Arldrine spun, slapping away his hand and pinning him against the wall. “Where is the Cron?” she ordered.
“There he is!” Yamier shouted.
Two guards marched down the hall toward them, each holding one of Wekin’s arms. Wekin stared at them, his eyes giving off an odd glitter as he watched them. Arldrine turned, spinning the Tider with her, as the guards shouted.
Optimistic lifted his bow, sending a warning arrow, and then he punched the two guards at the door. Arldrine threw the Tider into the wall, letting her fists fly. The guards reached for Arldrine, but her dagger was faster, piercing one in the side while slicing through the other’s arms. She pulled Wekin toward her, cutting his binds at the same time.
Yamier and Eliesmore stood back, mouths hanging open as they watched the quick retrieval.
“More will come; let’s run!” Optimistic shouted, moving back toward the door with an arrow in his bow.
There was a shout in the castle, and they turned.
“Took you long enough.” Wekin laughed, tilting back his head. The odd glimmer in his eyes was gone.
“Lord Axle!” Shouts came from the castle. “He is getting away!”
“No time to talk! Run!” Arldrine hustled Wekin forward.
They dashed across the plain as the guards burst through the castle door.
“Leave them!” Lord Axle commanded. “The Rakhai are nearby; they will hunt them down. We have other matters to attend to.”
“But they are White Steeds!” a voice countered.
As the guards moved, a blue fire erupted in front of them, blocking their exit. There were shouts and screams from those who had been singed.
Eliesmore continued to run, feeling the wind on his back. He saw a figure standing in front of the castle with a hand out, waiting for them. “Idrithar?” he called.
The stern-faced Cron nodded a
nd lifted his hand again, blue fire tingling from his fingertips.
“Welcome back.” Idrithar nodded. “Come. We must rejoin the others.”
Eliesmore bit back questions as they dashed over the plain. He saw Ellagine first; she was a blur of shimmering pale green. Glashar, Zhane, and Dathiem had arrows waiting. When they saw it was only their comrades, they lowered them.
“Wekin.” They welcomed him, clasping hands on his back. Wekin grinned as if he’d defeated the Black Steeds single-handedly.
“I am sorry for the trouble I caused.” He turned to each of them, although his expression did not indicate he was the least bit apologetic.
“No need for that.” Idrithar brushed past. “It is over, and you are unscathed. In fact, you helped us get to the Torsilo Quarts faster. We are only ten days away from the shore.”
“We should run,” Glashar interrupted. “We can talk later.”
Before they took off, Eliesmore felt Ellagine approach him. Her eyes were hopeful, and she smiled as she leaned down. She whispered, “You have succeeded once. You can succeed again.”
Eliesmore smiled up at her as if they shared a private secret.
They ran, a company of green blending with the ground. Giant trees, with their boughs stretched wide, flashed past them, paving the road toward the sea. Thoughts swirled around Eliesmore’s head. One took priority. He was exhausted from running. For two weeks, he had fled with his companions, seeing nothing aside from blank sky and empty land. Once they had discovered a map that was covered in dust, Yamier was sure it was Wekin’s work. They’d run on, searching for their lost friend. Eliesmore wished they were already at sea. It was something he’d desired since he was young. He could almost hear the song of the waves, rocking him to sleep. He wanted to lie in a boat and forget about his quest, the Rakhai, and what would happen to the Green Company in the west. Although they would be far from Daygone, there were two Changers in the west. They were going into the heart of darkness.
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 90